He squinted into the basket, as if trying to see to its depths. He looked up. “No. This is all.” He indicated the impressive spread between us with a nod of his head.

“So,” I said as he opened and poured the wine, “You did all this yourself?”

“I had a little help—with the candles—Janice lit them just before we arrived.” He handed me my glass and clinked the edge of his against mine. “But, everything else, yes, that was me.”

So, the millionaire, who could have paid someone to shop and to set up our terrace picnic, had gone to a lot of trouble to tell me he thought he was falling in love with me. Double swoon.

“Well, it’s divine.” I took a sip of wine and I could taste the sunshine of central France. The wine was both familiar and something entirely new, far more elevated than any wine from Beaujolais I’d had before.

“Do you like it?”

“I’m out of superlatives,” I replied.

He laughed lightly. “I find that very difficult to believe.” I didn’t mind the gentle teasing. It made me feel like he appreciated me—all of me, even the things I agonised over, like being too effusive, or worried I was constantly making a fool of myself.

What a wonderful feeling to be appreciated like that, to be loved. Loved.

James had said he was falling in love with me. And I’d said nothing. How could I leave him wondering like that? I had to tell him something. “James, thank you—for the dinner and this week and for, well …”

And in the absolute worst timing, a lack of superlatives was the least of my worries. I had lost the ability to say how I felt. I looked at my wine for inspiration, feeling the crease form between my brows. Why couldn’t I tell James how I felt? What was wrong with me?

He was watching me intently, letting me have the moment I needed to collect my thoughts, to find my words. And after what felt like aeons, I was finally able to say, “I do have feelings for you.” It was just above a whisper, and my voice caught in my throat as the emotion threatened to overwhelm me, but I said it.

He stood, then, and reached out for my hand. “Come here,” he said.

I placed my glass on the blanket, then reached for his hand and let him help me stand. I was careful not to tread on our picnic, which would have been the perfect way to obliterate the moment. He didn’t say anything more, just wrapped his arms around me and pulled me into a hug. I held onto him tightly as he rested his chin on the top of my head. We stood like that for a long time.

And then very quietly, he said, “Oh, Sarah.”

*

I woke on my second-to-last day in London well before the sun came up, lying on my back with my stomach in knots. The goodbyes were coming thick and fast. First it would be James and then it would be Cat. I didn’t know which one I was dreading the most.